Oh, nobly shone the fearful cross upon your
mail afar,
When Rhodes and Acre hailed your might, O lions
of the war!
When leading many a pilgrim horde, through wastes
of Syrian gloom;
Or standing with the cherubs sword before
the holy tomb.
Yet on your forms the apron seemed a nobler
armor far,
When by the sick mans bed ye stood, O
lions of the war!
When ye, the high-born, bowed your pride to
tend the lowly weakness,
The duty, though it brought no fame, fulfilled
by Christian meekness-
Religion of the cross, thou blendst,
as in a single flower,
The twofold branches of the palm-humility
and power.
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